Dream Lake by Lisa Kleypas
“You have someone in mind?”
“Sam Nolan’s brother Alex. He’s built some houses out at Roche—he does great work, and in the past he was known for being reliable. But he went through a divorce, and one of his real estate development deals fell through, and rumors are that he’s turned into a boozer. So I don’t know what the story is with him. I haven’t seen him in a while. I’ll get the lowdown from Sam.”
Zoë dropped her gaze to the cat in her lap and stroked his lavish fur. Byron wriggled and curled into a doughnut shape. “I … I met him, actually.” She took care to keep her voice casual. “When I went to Rainshadow Road to visit Lucy. He was doing some work on the house.”
“You didn’t mention it.” Justine’s brows lifted. “What did you think of him?”
Zoë shrugged uncomfortably. “We talked for all of ten seconds. I didn’t really have a chance to get an impression.”
A slow grin spread across Justine’s face. “You are the worst liar ever. Tell me.”
Zoë struggled to reply, her thoughts refusing to shape themselves into words. How could she explain her reaction to Alex Nolan? Striking, unsettling, his features austerely perfect, his eyes bright as if lit with the last spare voltage of his humanity. He looked thoroughly disillusioned, everything that had been tender and hopeful in him now crushed into diamond hardness. Thankfully he’d paid little attention to her, dismissing her as beneath his notice. That was just fine with Zoë.
From her early teens onward, men had always made certain assumptions about her, with the result that nice men stayed away and left the field open for the not-so-nice ones. She had always been approached by the kind of man who viewed hunting and seducing an attractive woman as a sport. If he got a woman into bed, he won the game. Zoë didn’t want to be a notch on some guy’s belt, and she didn’t want to be used.
She had thought that in marrying Chris, she had finally found someone who would value her for who she was. He was a caring and sensitive man who had always listened to her and treated her with respect and honesty. That had made it all the more devastating when Chris had told her a year after their wedding that he was in love with another man. The betrayal had been a cruel and ironic surprise, coming from someone who had always bolstered Zoë’s self-esteem. Since then, she had gone two years without any kind of romantic involvement. She didn’t trust her instincts where men were concerned. And a man like Alex Nolan was obviously beyond her ability to handle.
“I thought he was handsome,” Zoë finally managed to say, thinking of Alex. “But not very approachable.”
“I get the feeling he doesn’t like women.”
“You mean he’s—”
“No, I don’t mean it that way—he’s straight by all accounts. He has sex with women, but I don’t think he likes them.” Justine paused and shrugged. “Of course, that doesn’t have anything to do with remodeling the cottage. So if I call Sam and he says Alex is still on his game, what do you think? Would you have any problem with him doing the work?”
“Not at all,” Zoë said, although her stomach did a little flip at the thought of seeing him again.
“No,” Alex said flatly, when Sam told him about Justine’s call. “I’m too busy.”
“I’m asking as a personal favor,” Sam said. “She’s Lucy’s friend. Besides, you need the work.”
The ghost lounged nearby as the two brothers applied a resin medallion to the ceiling of the second-floor landing. “He’s right,” the ghost told Alex, who sent him a scowl.
“I don’t give a shit,” Alex muttered. He was on a stepladder, pressing the adhesive-covered back of the medallion to the drywall above, while Sam stood below with a makeshift padded wooden support.
“Take it easy, Blowtorch,” Sam said mildly. “It wouldn’t hurt you to earn some money.”
Alex struggled to contain his exasperation. He was still getting used to the idea that just because he could see and hear the ghost didn’t mean anyone else could. “Tell her to get someone else to do it.”
“There is no one else. Every other contractor on the island is booked up for the summer, except you. And Justine was trying to ask me with her usual sledgehammer subtlety if you were even capable of handling the job.”
“Remodeling a lake cottage?” Alex was indignant. “Why couldn’t I handle that?”
“I don’t know, Al. Maybe it has something to do with the impression people have gotten lately … that if your life was graphed in a pie chart, half of it would be ‘shitfaced’ and the other half would be ‘hungover.’ Yeah, you can give me the evil eye, but it doesn’t change the fact that someday soon, you’re going to be too drunk to work and too broke to drink.”
“He’s right about that, too,” the ghost commented.
“Screw you,” Alex said to both of them. “I’ve never missed one damn day of work for any reason.”
Sam wedged the padded support beneath the medallion, while Alex checked the pencil marks on the ceiling to make certain the resin hadn’t moved.
“I believe that,” Sam said quietly. “But you’re going to have to go out there and prove it to everyone else, Al. From what I can tell, your 401(k) is now a 501(k).”
“What does that mean?”
“Your net worth is now located in the pocket of your Levi’s.”
“I still have the Dream Lake development. I just need to find new backers.”
“Great. In the meantime, this little cottage of Zoë’s is right on Dream Lake Road. You’ve probably driven past it a hundred times. So you can take a couple of weeks to fix up her place, and—”
“Zoë?” Alex asked sharply, descending the stepladder. “I thought you said it was Justine’s cottage.”
“Justine was the one who called me about it. Zoë’s going to live there with her grandmother, who’s got some kind of Alzheimer’s. You remember Zoë, right? The sweet-faced blonde with the nice set of … muffins.” Sam grinned as he saw Alex’s face. “Help me out. She’s one of Lucy’s best friends. Do it so I can reap the benefits of Lucy’s gratitude.”
The ghost stared at Alex with offhand amusement. “Why not?” he asked. “Unless you’re scared.”
“Why would I be scared?” Alex asked irritably, before he thought better of it.
“Scared of what?” Sam asked, perplexed. “Of Zoë?”
“No,” Alex said in exasperation. “Forget it.”
“It doesn’t have to be complicated,” Sam told Alex. “Go fix the house for the nice woman and her grandmother. Maybe you’ll get lucky and she’ll fix you dinner.”
“And if you don’t,” the ghost added, “we’ll know how much of a coward you really are.”
“I’ll do it,” Alex said through gritted teeth. It was clear that the ghost was going to badger him nonstop if he didn’t. And he felt the need to prove to the ghost—and maybe to himself—that Zoë Hoffman would pose no problem for him. “Give me her number. I’ll find out what she wants and work up a quote. If she doesn’t like it, she’s welcome to find someone else.”
“And you’ll give her a good deal, right?”
“I give everyone a good deal,” Alex said icily. “I don’t rip my customers off, Sam.”
“I know that,” came Sam’s quick response. “Wasn’t implying otherwise.”
“I’ll quote a fair price, I’ll do good work, and I’ll finish on time. Like I always do. And afterward, if you don’t quit bitching about my personal life, I’m going to take this support post and shove it up your—”
“Deal,” Sam said promptly.
Seven
“Why can’t you be the one to meet him at the cottage?” Zoë asked as she and Justine cleared the dining room of the breakfast dishes.
“It’s going to be your house,” Justine said reasonably, following her into the kitchen. “And you’re the one who knows best about what Emma’s going to need.”
“I still wish you would go with me.”
“I can’t. I’m meeting the loan officer at the bank. You?
“It’s not the budget I’m worried about,” Zoë said, scraping the breakfast plate at the sink with unnecessary vigor. “You know I don’t like talking to strangers.”
“Alex isn’t a stranger. You’ve met him before.”
“For about thirty seconds.”
“You just went to Everett and talked with a whole bunch of strangers.”
“That’s not the same.”
“Oh.” Justine paused in the middle of loading handfuls of flatware into the dishwasher. “I get it. But I promise he’s not going to do anything to make you uncomfortable. He’ll be professional.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. He’s Sam’s brother. He knows Sam would kick his ass if he offended you.”
“I suppose.”
“You talked to him on the phone to set up the meeting, right? Was he friendly?”
Zoë pondered that. “He wasn’t unfriendly …”
“But he was polite?”
Zoë thought back to the brief conversation they’d had. There had been no pleasantries, not a trace of his brother Sam’s easy charm. But yes … he had been polite. She nodded in answer to Justine’s question.
“The only way to get over your shyness,” Justine was saying pragmatically, “is to practice. You know, be friendly, make small talk. Guys aren’t all that different from us.”
“Yes they are.”
“Okay, they are different from us. What I meant was, they’re not complicated.”
“Yes they are.”
“Well, sometimes they can be complicated, but they are entirely predictable.”
Zoë heaved a sigh. She envied Justine’s confidence, and she knew that Justine was right: she did need to practice. But the idea of being alone in the lakeside cottage with a man who intimidated her on just about every level was incredibly stressful.
“You know what I do when I’m facing something I dread?” Justine volunteered. “I divide it into steps. So if I were going to meet with Alex at the cottage, I wouldn’t let myself think about the whole three-hour ordeal—”
“It’s going to take three hours?”
“More like two. So I would start by telling myself, ‘Step one. All I’m doing is getting into the car and driving to the cottage.’ Don’t worry about the rest of it, just do that. And once you’re there, say to yourself, ‘Step two. All I’m going to do is unlock the door and go inside to wait.’ And when Alex shows up: ‘Step three. I’ll let him in and chitchat for a couple of minutes.’ ” Justine gave her a self-satisfied smile. “See? None of those things are so terrible by themselves. It’s just when you view them all together that you start to feel like you’re sprinting away from a rabid tiger.”
“Spiders,” Zoë said. “I’m not stressed by the idea of a rabid tiger. Spiders are what scare me.”
“Fine, but that ruins the metaphor. No one has to sprint away from a spider.”
“Wolf spiders chase down their prey. And black widow spiders can move very fast. And there are leaping spiders that—”
“Step one,” Justine interrupted firmly. “Find your car keys.”
From the moment Alex had pulled up to the lakeside cottage, the ghost had seemed riveted. He’d stopped talking, for once, and stared in open fascination, taking in every detail.
Alex couldn’t figure out what he found so interesting. The house was small and rustic, with cedar shake siding, a covered front porch, wide eave overhangs, and a stone chimney. Craftsman details like tapered boxed columns on the porch and a fieldstone foundation made it the kind of place that, when properly restored, would have a certain amount of charm. But the cheap carport on the side was a detraction. And it was apparent at first glance that the property management company had done a mediocre job of upkeep. The landscaping was untidy and overgrown, the graveled driveway choked with weeds. If the inside had been as poorly maintained as the outside, there were going to be problems.
Since they were early and Zoë hadn’t arrived yet, Alex decided to walk around the exterior to look for mold, damaged siding, or foundation cracks.
“I know this place,” the ghost had said in wonder, following Alex from the truck. “I remember being here. I remember—” He broke off abruptly.
Alex glanced at him, sensing the wistfulness in his mood. “You lived here?”
Looking troubled, the ghost said distractedly, “No, I was … visiting someone.”
“Who?”
“A woman.”
“To do what?” Alex persisted.
Although the ghost wasn’t capable of blushing, his discomfort was impossible to miss. “None of your business,” came the curt reply.
“So you were boning her?”
The ghost glowered at him. “Up yours.”
Pleased at having annoyed him, Alex continued to wander around the exterior of the house. The satisfaction faded quickly, though, drowned in the awareness of a yearning so powerful and raw that it almost hurt to be near it. Did the ghost know who or what had inspired the feeling? Alex was tempted to ask him, but somehow that seemed brutish … the only way to respect that degree of unexpressed pain was to keep silent.
“She’s here,” the ghost said, as they heard the crunch of tires on the graveled driveway.
“Great,” Alex said dourly. The prospect of talking to Zoë, interacting in even the most mundane way, was enough to make him break into a cold sweat. He reached up to the back of his neck to rub the tense muscles.
The ghost had been right when he’d called Alex a coward. But Alex wasn’t worried for his own sake.
The failed marriage with Darcy had confirmed some of the worst things he had ever suspected about himself. It had taught him that intimacy not only gave you the weapons but the will to hurt the people you were closest to. And most of all it had convinced him that he was fated to end up like both his parents. He would inevitably destroy everything and everyone he cared about.
The worst of the damage had become apparent after he and Darcy had separated. They’d continued to have sex on the occasions when she came to the island. “For old time’s sake,” Darcy had said at one point, but there had been nothing of reminiscence or regret in their savage encounters. Only anger. Retaliation. They’d fucked each other out of mutual resentment, and the worst part was that it had been far better than any experience they’d shared out of affection. He was still haunted by the memories of what they’d done, how they had turned each other into the worst possible versions of themselves.
There was no return to innocence after that.
And there was no place in his life for anyone like Zoë Hoffman. The only act of kindness he could offer was to keep his distance from her.
Before going to the front entrance, Alex said sotto voce, “Stay out of my way and don’t distract me while I’m talking to her. People tend not to hire schizophrenic contractors.”
“I’ll shut up,” the ghost promised.
Doubtful. But they both knew that if the ghost pissed Alex off, he would refuse to go through the attic and sift through the heaps of long-forgotten junk that might yield a clue about his former life. And the ghost desperately wanted to find out who he was. Although Alex would never have admitted it, he’d become just as curious. It was impossible not to wonder why the ghost had been condemned to such merciless isolation. Maybe the ghost was paying for his past sins—maybe he’d been some kind of criminal or lowlife. But that didn’t explain why Alex had ended up towing him around.
Alex cast a suspicious glance at him, but the ghost didn’t appear to notice. He was staring at the house, and Zoë’s approaching figure, mesmerized by distant shadows.
To Zoë’s consternation, a pickup truck was already parked beneath the carport. Was Alex there already? It was still five minutes before they were supposed to meet.
Her heartbeat quickened to a sharp staccato. She parked beside the truck and consulted the visor mirror, and checked to make certain the buttons of h
She crossed the gravel in her pink leather flats and went to the front door and found it was still locked. Delving into her bag, she found the keys from the property management company. The first one didn’t work. As she extracted the second key and jiggled it into the lock, she became aware of someone approaching from the side. It was Alex, who had been walking around the exterior of the house. He had an athletic, loose-limbed way of moving, his body nearly rawboned in a black short-sleeved shirt and jeans. He came to stand beside her, a large and brooding presence.
“Hi,” she said with forced cheer.
Alex gave her a brief nod, the sunlight sliding across the layers of his dark hair. He was almost inhumanly beautiful, with those angular cheekbones and strongly marked brows, and eyes of frozen fire. Something restless lurked beneath his controlled façade, as if he hadn’t had enough food, or enough sleep, or enough something. That mysterious and unexpressed need practically glowed through his skin.
No doubt his divorce had taken a physical toll—he could have used a few good meals. Zoë couldn’t help thinking of what she would make for him, given the opportunity. Maybe butternut squash soup, graced with hints of tart green apple and smoky bacon, served with yeast rolls brushed with butter and a sprinkle of sea salt.
She turned the key harder in the resisting lock, her mind still occupied with the imaginary dinner. Maybe she would cook something heavier and more filling … meat loaf made with pork, veal, and crumbs from rustic French bread. Mashed potatoes swirled with caramelized scallions … and a side of green and yellow wax beans sautéed slowly in olive oil and garlic until they were melting-tender—